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I’m coming out of my hiatus as I am, somewhat ironically, entering another. On Friday afternoon, just over 48 hours ago, Switzerland went into lock down due to the Coronavirus outbreak.

We all knew it was coming – the virus of course but also the inevitable response. It’s still somehow shocking, though. There had been speculation and lesser measures imposed over the last few weeks: colleagues being quarantined due to working in specific locations, signage appearing everywhere, the disappearance of both hand sanitiser and toilet paper, the quintessentially Swiss triple-kiss greeting temporarily retired.

It sort of feels like we’re actors at the start of a bad movie. (We’re currently watching Contagion, and I guess if I go it may as well be as dramatically as good ol’ Gwyneth. Although truth be told I’d prefer to ‘go down to the Winchester, have a nice cold pint, and wait for this all to blow over’, so maybe we’ll choose that apocalyptic ending instead.) The range of responses have been interesting: the lunch date who proudly informed me she’d filled two trolleys and that her cellar was totally inhabitable, through to the person who calmly told Tim after a meeting that the virus is a natural response to overpopulation. There are people who think it’s a hoax and those who haven’t come to work in weeks after they heard about what was happening in Italy.

We’re working on being calm but cautious. We’ve stocked up on the ‘essentials’ but haven’t gone nuts. If my kids miraculously took to eating lentils and barley and the other miscellany lurking in the pantry we could easily survive six weeks without going hungry. They wouldn’t be a particularly delicious six weeks, but we’d make it. Due to the depleted hand sanitiser stocks Tim bought glycerol and rubbing alcohol and we’re going to mix our own – I figure it can double as a craft project for the kids (there’s not enough glitter in commercial hand sanitisers anyway). The brats have learned to cough into their elbows (although I suspect Teddy is still licking things in passing, so that sort of defeats the point) and our toilet paper supplies, while not ludicrous, are healthy. So I guess we’re ready.

Schools have been closed in Luzern until after Easter holidays – that’s six loooooooong weeks. The kita isn’t closed – yet – but it was recommended by the Stadt that they should only stay open to support families who cannot stay home (such as health care professionals). We’ve decided to keep Teddy with us, not just because we’re suckers for punishment but it seems to defeat the purpose of the quarantine if the most vulnerable member of our family is trotting off to a toddler cesspool every day (that, and his carers have elderly extended family who are at much higher risk than us, so it seems an unfair risk to take just for some time away from the little guy). Tim and I will be working from home (oh! by the way I am now gainfully and very happily employed! A lot happens in a year and a half, I guess), which will be challenging with the two small people underfoot but we’re hoping for the best. We’ve done some basic daily structuring to make sure they get both learning and physical exercise in but I think we all know Ryder and his team of pups are going to swoop in and save the day. All public places – swimming pools, libraries, galleries – are closed and public transport minimised. They tell me gyms are also shut but I wouldn’t know much about that. The borders are also closed, other than a small patch of the Swiss / Italian border to facilitate commuting workers. Despite these fairly intense measures, people generally seem fairly calm – but I’m basing that on the fact that there’s no overt looting rather than anything else.

Today was glorious, a perfect Swiss spring day (it’s arrived early this year, after an unprecedentedly warm winter, but that’s another human disaster story for another day). We all have coughs, and Teddy had a slight temperature over the weekend, so we spent most of the day looking longingly out the window. Such perfection makes the current situation even more surreal. It’s hard to say what the next month will bring, but for now I’m pleased to be with my family, to have work that is flexible enough to allow us to be together, to live in a country that is taking our health seriously. I’m also pleased about the lentils, but I’ll have to work harder to sell that one.

Despite it being overcast and grey – which a few weeks ago meant freezing – I’m sitting next to the lake in a single layer of clothing. To my right is a cyclist, dismounted from his steed, peering through binoculars. He’s either viewing the nesting waterfowl I’ve just walked past or the nudist beach slightly further along. It’s blustery but warm, and the masts on the nearby moored boats are making a pleasant clanking which harmonizes nicely with the chatter of the ducks. I’m taking in deep breaths of the always pristine air, laced with the occasional waft of miscellaneous springtime florals, and relishing – probably for the last time in a while – not rushing to be anywhere.

After nearly four and a half years of Hausfrauing – some of it wretched, some of it marvellous, all of it unexpected – I’m returning to full time work this week. Gainful employment. Obligation to do my hair (by which I really mean shower). Excuse to go work wardrobe shopping. Not gonna lie: I’m super exited (apart from the regular shower thing).

Yesterday afternoon was Swiss spring perfection. The kids and I walked our well trodden path: down the street past the hyacinths, daffodils, buttercups, dandelions. Past the ‘big kid school’ that my own big kid can’t wait to attend this summer. Up and over the hill that starts as a forest and clears into breathtaking views of the lake, the mountains, the sky. We met some friends at the park, people we’ve been meeting almost every Wednesday since we arrived here, longer than my little boy has been alive. We sat in the park while the kids ran amok. The lake was a broken mirror, each shard its own story. The time Yves jumped into the fountain. The time I asked them all to come over for Pudding Day. The time Sebi and Ads said a lisped ‘sorry’ and held hands after fighting all afternoon. The time my non-hugging friend whole heartedly hugged me. Every now and then a gust of wind descended from the still snow capped Alps, and the blossom tree next to us would shudder, shaking its petals into our laps, our hair, my boy’s eyelashes, our cheeky afternoon prosecco. Mesmerised by the delicate transient white on blue I heard my daughter exclaim ‘Spring snow! Teddy, look, it’s spring snow!’.

I feel nothing but excitement about returning to work. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Excitement, and concern about how the hell our laundry will ever get done (that statement implies it gets done efficiently now. It does not). But I have no guilt at all, which I always assumed I’d feel at least to some degree (and have been told I ought, which is another matter altogether). When I was going through the interview process I (fairly arrogantly) came home and declared I felt had done well. My Addie ran across the room and threw her arms around me and said ‘Mama! I’m so proud of you!’. I don’t care if it was due to the interview, or to my self-proclaimed amazingness, or whether she’s just four and knows no differently, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll take it.

I’ve only a few days left before I return to drying hair I have actually bothered to wash, putting on makeup, wearing clothes sans stains (I hope, but I am prepared to admit I’m aiming too high). These four and a half years have been, in so many ways, the very richest of my life. Those chubby hands that lunge for snacks, tentatively explore all the things, reach hopefully yet confidently for mine. Those little bodies, a breathtaking juxtaposition between frenetic energy and complete deadweight exhaustion. The inconceivable depth of feeling: not just the love I have for them, or theirs for me, but the way this has augmented and shaped every other relationship I have. Those little voices, finding themselves in every way – sounding out, making sense, articulating, owning. The privilege of tired hot breath on my face, of innocent secrets whispered, of witnessing every small increment grown, of the purest of intimacies. These moments, experiences, days, years have floated by, petals on the wind. White on blue, the act of a mere moment. Impossibly fragile and imprinted on my mind forever.

My ears are ringing. My lips, tongue and – bizarrely – teeth are throbbing. I reek of second hand cigarette and cigar smoke, so much so that I have been ordered to take a quarantining shower and leave the offending clothing in isolation until it is washed. I am slightly fuzzy due to a couple of hearty glasses of red wine. I am training for Fasnacht.

You might recall a few years ago Tim joined a band for Luzern’s largest and most chaotic street party. It’s an epic part of Luzern culture – a week in February where the city shakes off the shackles of winter and parties like…well, I’ve not really ever seen partying like it. Close to one hundred bands of varying quality and historical significance don their battle dress: grotesquely exaggerated masks, themed costumes, a wide range instruments (but an undeniable focus on horns and drums) to wander the alleys playing the gaudy Guggenmusik typical of the carnival. The people – visitors and locals alike – also dress up and take to the streets, holding a spot with a home made bar, or following their favourite bands around, or just wandering to see what Fasnacht brings them. Our German teacher is a member of a theatrical Fasnacht group that does performance art during the festival. When we recently lamented the transition into colder weather he almost rubbed his hands together in excitement as he gleefully said, ‘Winter is wonderful because it means the start of Fasnacht season!’.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but somehow I, too, am now a member of Fritschi and Bucheli Musig. In an even more bizarre twist of fate, I am allegedly playing an instrument that I (or, arguably, anybody) have no business to be involved with: the soprano saxophone.

Let’s backtrack a tiny bit to, say, the early to mid 1990s. It will surprise precisely nobody to learn that I was a colossal band nerd. I played in both the school and local town band, as well as going to the annual band camp for our region. I was every bit as ignorantly and happily geeky as band kids are. But I did not play saxophone. I did not even play an instrument with a reed (the little wooden thing attached to an instrument on which you blow, which also happens to be responsible for my current mouth irritation). I played the flute. And past is the only correct tense for this statement: it’s been over 20 years since I regularly touched the thing.

I was keen to take my turn in the band, however I’d been hoping to play something I could actually, well, play. But on the night we all got together to decide this year’s theme (Schlagermusik, which is kind of pop meets 60s meets German oom-pah-pah. At least, I think it is) it was also decided that a flute would be too cumbersome as we marched through the tiny cobbled alleys of Luzern, and what was really needed was another saxophone. My protestations were numerous. I’d never played one before. Ever. I didn’t even own one. Also, did I mention I can’t play one? Apparently these went unheeded as a few days later one of the band members arrived at our door, where she handed over a soprano saxophone and promptly left. My fate was apparently decided.

Rehearsals are every Tuesday night. I spend the preceding hours getting increasingly nervous. There’s my rubbish playing, but there’s also the fact that the common language is Lözarner Swiss German. I can muddle through a basic bit of high Deutsch, but this dialect is as confusing as the notes I produce from the sax. But Tim usually makes me a nerve-stiffening drink, and I grab my backpack with the sax case sticking awkwardly out of the top, rug up against the icy winter night, and jump on my bike.

It’s not even a ten minute cycle away but from the second I start moving, pushing the bike as fast as I can against the shocking cold in an effort to warm up, I feel liberated, free. It’s partly because I’m stepping firmly out of the role of hausfrau. Partly because of the challenge that lies ahead, the thrill of doing something completely new. And I suspect partly because on some level I remember the same freedom of slapping on my P-plates and driving the family Nissan van off to band practice all those years ago.

We rehearse in a bunker underneath a school, which the band has occupied since the 1970s. I arrive red cheeked and out of breath, neither of which dissipates throughout the evening. The bunker is long and narrow. One end holds a large communal table, the other a bar and kitchen. The middle is where we sit to play. I’m sandwiched between Pia (who plays alto sax) and Rita (clarinet). I’m fairly sure there have been some friendly jokes made about the three of us but I have not understood them. Everyone grabs a drink, and the melodic bouncy lilt of the Schweizerdeutsch is replaced by the melodic bouncy lilt of trumpets, trombones, clarinets and one very bad soprano sax warming up.

Our conductor, Urs, announces the name of the song we’re about to play. Some are familiar: a When The Saints medley, Ke Sera Sera, Mary Lou, The Entertainer. Most are traditional Swiss tunes, and seeing my blank face when he names them, Urs has taken to humming a few starting notes for my ignorant benefit. There’s no music – they all play by ear – and when I asked what key the tunes were played in I was met with shrugs and laughter. To be fair, knowing wouldn’t have helped me much anyway as I don’t actually know the key of the instrument I’m learning to play.

There’s a positive psychology term: the flow. It’s also known more casually as being ‘in the zone’ and refers to when you’re so engrossed in an activity that you’re not distracted by your everyday thought patterns. Time moves quickly as you step outside yourself and do something other. Some consider it one of the key factors to happiness; at the very least it adds complexity and interest to life. The two hours we rehearse in that bunker fly by. I concentrate on the music, on the not-quite-musical sounds I’m making, on recognising tunes and rhythms and language. Every now and then something clicks and it works. I’m jolted back to the present, and look around myself. I can’t quite believe where I am. Nerdy 40 year old Wendy grins happily back across the years to nerdy teenage Wendy.

When he visited last summer, my father-in-law – himself an avid musician – commented on a book he was currently reading, Sapiens. I’m about half way through the book myself. It’s an epic and fairly slow going tome that surveys the history of human kind and postulates about our future. Mike had enjoyed many parts of it but expressed a sense of flabbergasted disbelief about something he thought was blatantly absent from the book. What business, he claimed, had a book discussing the history of our race without mentioning music?

I don’t share the same passion, but I think I understand where he’s coming from. I love the sense of making something – even if, in my case it’s fairly rubbish – bigger than myself. Something purely for enjoyment with very little practical purpose. Something that’s intellectually but also emotionally challenging, and that brings with it many distant memories of my long gone youth. The camaraderie within the room, where a bunch of strangers from a different culture with a different language can share something so effortlessly, and with such generosity. I also love being part of the biggest party that this town has to offer, seeing it from a completely different angle. I even love getting back on my bike, my hands numbing during the freezing ride home on icy roads through a sleeping wintery city. Because, after all, the cold is is wonderful. It means it’s Fasnacht season.

Despite having a wonderfully drawn out, gloriously golden summer, the days of swimming and grilling and short sleeves are now feeling like a distant memory. There is gold, still, but of a different sort: the leaves that tumbled into the kids’ hair as they ran rambunctiously through the park, the pumpkins – edible and ornamental – we’ve been selecting at every trip to the markets, the increasingly early sunsets that reflect off the distant Alps, turning the early snow into halos. It’s a breathtaking time of year, but before we declare hiking season well and truly over let me take you back to what will probably be our last for the year.

It was a good one.

Almost a month ago (!), Tim’s youngest sister and her partner arrived in Switzerland. They had the better part of a week with us before heading off – we reunited later in Italy – and, if we agree to judge a Swiss holiday by the number of mountains scaled and amount of cheese eaten, theirs was highly successful. On what was forecast to the the finest day of their visit, we decided to tackle the Stoos Ridgeline hike.

Stoos, a mountain resort not far from us, recently built the world’s steepest train: the Stoosbahn (coincidentally, the train it pipped to the post is actually located in Australia’s Blue Mountains, from which both Soph and Jake hail). An odd looking, caterpillar like series of circles, the train feels more like an elevator as it lifts you from the foot of the mountain to the top. It didn’t seem like it would work, entirely, so we spent the trip repeating our standard mantra: ‘Swiss engineering, Swiss engineering, Swiss engineering’. Safely deposited at the top we then had to get a ski lift to the start of the walk, much to the delight of the fearless kids and the terror of their mama.

The walk itself is short in length – about 5km – but since it spans the ridge between two peaks and drops and rises quite a lot, it took us quite some time to hike it (two children in backpacks didn’t speed us up any. While Addie is a very good walker, the drops were so steep at points that I didn’t trust her tired little legs to stay on the path. I only saw one child around Ads’ age walking it – a rope had been tied around her waist and was firmly held by the accompanying adult in case of any slipping).

While a little challenging (my rickety old knees weren’t delighted with the descent plus 15kg toddler on my back), it was easily the most stunning walk we’ve done to date.

Thankfully, Uncle Jake took one of the brats (little Teddy, who I swear I overheard attempting to say ‘Jake’ in his lispy little whisper) for the final climb to the end of the hike (a bar! restaurant! playground!), leaving me free to ogle the landscape in peace (by which I mean huff and puff).

(In the picture directly below, if you follow the water around to the far left, hidden behind the peak are the islands we visited on Swiss National Day. The large deep blue body of water throughout the snaps is Lake Luzern – Vierwaldstättersee – and this is where it meets the Reuss river at the delta. We didn’t realise it was the same spot until right at the end of the hike where our perspective shifted into place.)

She’s an unusual lake, the old Vierwaldstättersee. The name translates as ‘lake of the four forested settlements’ (vier = four, wald = forest, stadt = town and see = lake), and this is really only obvious when you view her sprawling, tentacled form from above. Our own little slice of the lake – a few blocks from our apartment, where we walk and roll down hills and swim and grill and smell second hand weed and watch tightrope walkers tumble (maybe due to said weed) – seems like a completely different world when we look at it from this angle.

It’s hard to imagine from the snaps above, but the very next day Soph, Jake, Tim and Addie went up Mount Rigi and were greeted with a heavy snow. In the weeks following this hike the days have shortened and darkened, and the temperature has dropped dramatically. Snow is falling on the peaks and sticking on the higher ones (and scarily it’s forecast for Luzern town – typically on the day that Addie and I are due to run our ‘races’ – a half marathon for me and an adorable 195m for her). Autumn is unquestionably here.

At the risk of being sombre, I have probably already used at least half my allotted summers. A bunch of them are long forgotten. Some of them linger as sensory memories only, revisited briefly through the scent of, say, coconut oil or steamed corn on the cob. Some were most definitely squandered (I’m looking at you, wasted university summers). A few unfortunate years I missed them altogether: moving continents and foolishly – unintentionally – following winter. The summers since the arrival of my children have been different again. Ads was born in the peak of an Australian summer and my memories are primarily of bunkering down in our darkened terrace, hiding from the sun and hoping for sleep. The last two, spent here in Switzerland, were fleeting both in terms of weather and enjoyment. I was pregnant for the first and had a six month old skwarker for the second, so my attention was focused primarily on morning sickness and baby naps and basically keeping everyone alive.

These unfortunate summers past all feel like a rehearsal for this year. This year – unexpectedly and delightfully – the summer has been amazing. Weather wise (which isn’t everything but it certainly helps) we’ve had bonza days since May. We had a solid influx of visitors over May and June, resulting in lots of lovely lake time and the start of a holiday vibe. But most importantly, I find myself reaping the full benefits of being a hausfrau: the kids are old enough to enjoy summer actives (swimming! camping! grilling!), I’m not ruled by Nap Schedules as restrictively, and we can spend as much time as we like by the water. Tim and I have finally copped on that only one parent needs to be at home of an evening, resulting in a tag team effort of evening lake swims. For the first time in maybe forever, I feel like I’m making the most of the season.

Here, the height of summer coincides with Swiss National Day. On 1 August (or thereabouts, the history books refer to ‘early August’) in 1219, three Swiss cantons – formerly independent states – banded together to protect their trading routes and themselves from Germany in the north. In a field called Rütli, north of Lake Luzern, these three states swore the ‘Oath on Rütli’ which established the first Swiss confederacy. Over time (and several battles) other states joined, and eventually the collective became the Confederation Helvetia of today. As you can imagine, it’s a much loved celebration by the Swiss. Firework shops pop up for the week preceding it, people take extended holidays around the formal day off, grills and picnics are prepared, and everyone wishes each other well on the day.

Our third Swiss National Day – a glorious thirty-plus summer’s day – started off appropriately, by shoving a mini Swiss flag in our breakfast. (Although admittedly not terribly Swiss, i could have been worse. We could have shoved the flag into our usual breakfast: vegemite toast.)

We were spending the day not far from the meadow of Rötli, the site of Swiss confederacy. Located in one of the three cantons that formed the original Switzerland – Canton Uri – we were hearing to the Lorelei Bathing Islands.

The ‘islands’ are actually made from reclaimed rock and gravel excavated during the building of the Gotthard Tunnel, the largest tunnel in the world, connecting Switzerland to Italy. A five year project, the islands were made to counter the erosion occurring at the site of the Reuss Delta and provide a habitat for native birds and water life of the area. They also – very conveniently for our needs – deliver excellent swimming for both children and adults alike.

We had excitedly prepared our grill, and I had been very enthusiastically planning what fireworks I would purchase (doing something banned in my own country remains childishly thrilling, I’m afraid) when a national fire ban was put in place. We were annoyed for a few moments, but since a fire ban is indication of a delightfully warm summer, we happily complied. (Also, fines for breaching said ban were CHF20’000 minimum, so we were happy to eat non-grilled food.) We spent the day pottering by the lake, swimming across to the islands, exploring the nearby bird sanctuary and playing chaseys around the viewing tower.

Although definitely idyllic I will admit the day wasn’t perfect. The children ate only olives and cake for lunch, poor little Teddy has a summer cold so was quite miserable, patience was tested from time to time, and there was a revoltingly filthy marshmallow incident in the car on the way home. Still, in the summer scheme of things it was a lovely way to celebrate once again our adopted country, and since that marshmallow came in a packet bearing the Swiss flag all is forgiven.

I’ve written before about the joys (and I am sure I have mentioned the woes; if not here then over a drink to anyone who’ll listen and a few who’d really rather not) (also, sorry) about small town and small child living. One of my favourite aspects of both of these, and one that marks our days and weeks and seasons, is treading the same small paths, following the same insignificant routines, beating our continual rhythms. A week or so ago, as Teddles and I were doing our Tuesday afternoon stroll from town to home via Lake Lucerne, I saw that most terrifying harbinger of spring: the first swan nest. As you probably know, swans mate for life and are also very territorial; each swan couple builds their nests in the same spot each year. The following day we set out to visit the other swan nest in our neighbourhood, built in a disused boatshed on the shore of the lake near the Richard Wagner museum. It’s my favourite (if the horror of protective mama and papa swans can be considered as such) as it’s positioned perfectly: at the end of an alley of cherry blossoms, Alps in the background and lake right in front (there’s also a fenced in park right next door, so this mama can relax while her own chicks run amok). It’s totally Swiss spring in one picture postcard image.

I was surprised when, the next day, we arrived at the shed to find…nothing. No nest, no evidence of nests past, and no swans or eggs. Now I’m no bird expert – quite the opposite, I’m pathetically scared of all of them – but this did not bode well to me. Some googling advised that although swans mate for life, they can ‘divorce’, often following nesting troubles. Or of course it’s possible that one of the couple died, in which case the remaining swan will find a new partner and start a new family elsewhere. I am choosing not to believe either. Instead, I reckon that the lucky swans who’ve been nesting happily together at the boatshed have decided that a dozen clutches of kids is enough, and now it’s their time for themselves. Maybe they’ve gone to sunny Spain for a long-awaited holiday, or perhaps they’ve taken a round-the-world trip to finally meet some of their back swan cousins found down under.

Either way, it felt like a slight downer in a string of recent spring failures. Needing a pick-me-up following a week of tantalising warm weather, we decided to head to somewhere we were guaranteed spring loveliness: Insel Mainau. It is a small island in Lake Constance, just over the German border from Switzerland. The island is a private botanical garden famous for its spring bulbs and, later in the year, its dahlia collection. We loaded the unsuspecting kids into the car, drove the hour and a half to the island and walked across the bridge from the mainland.

It was a spring wonderland (not exactly the ‘magical island’ I may have promised the three year old when she started querying our destination, but pretty close).

We wandered around the island – it’s only one kilometre long and just over half a kilometre wide, so it was perfectly manageable for the small people and allowed their flower loving mama plenty of time to ooh and aah.

The island was quite popular – not only with other spring loving tourists, but also with thousands of teeny tiny flies. If you squint, you can see them in the first snap below. You wouldn’t have needed to squint to get an understanding of our Adelaide’s thoughts on the flies; her flailing of arms and screeching could be seen and heard on the mainland.

The island also has a butterfly enclosure, a petting zoo and an epic adventure playground for little people. After I had tested my family’s floral limits to the max we enjoyed the latter, the kids tuckering themselves out for the return drive to Switzerland.

As we left the island – in the early afternoon, as our little ones still need a nap (and in an ideal world their parents would get one too) – we heaved a sigh of relief that we had gone early. The queues to get onto the island were astounding; I’d forgotten about European Summer Madness. Patting ourselves on the back all the way out of the shockingly congested car park (we have also gotten used to Swiss efficiency) we decided to try our luck one last time at the cherry blossoms. This time, we decided to head to Frick, a tiny town known for its cherry blossom trail. As the children slept, I kept everything crossed as we approached the town, glancing out the window in the hopes that the blossoms would be there.

I was not disappointed. The Cherry Trail (Chriesiwäg) is a signposted walk that is most popular during the 6-8 day period in spring where the cherry trees flower, although it can also be walked in early summer when you are allowed to sample the fruit from the trees (Ads has demanded that we return for this. I am telling myself it is due to a love of nature, but really I know it’s due to a love of the eats). It starts in the town of Gipf-Oberfrick and follows a mostly dirt trail up a hill, looping around the town and through the cherry orchards which have close to 10,000 fruit trees. The walk is around 5km long and was the perfect spring Sunday afternoon stroll.

Because this blossom-following lark seems to be an inexact science, the trees were a mixture of green leaves (finished the bloom), half-and-half (which was most of the trees along the way) and a few brilliant white fully blooming wonders. We – and all the other people on the trail – used the latter as our best photo-posing spot.

Like everything here, the path is well maintained and well marked. There are 11 information panels along the way, giving tips about the trees, the uses of cherries, and the bees that make honey from the flowers whose hives were symbiotically mingled amidst the orchards. This did not go down so well with the little miss: flies on one outing and buzzing buzzing bees on another did not a happy three year old make.

Three year old, schmee year old: I loved the whole day, and my spring-lust has almost been sated. We’re due a trip to the Netherlands, home of the tulip, in the coming days so I am sticking with the ‘almost’, just in case. (Also, I’ll be using the holiday to look out for that old tourist swan couple, the long suffering swan husband indulging his swan Mrs in her love for all things floral.)

Can one really flashback to only a week ago? In my defence, Easter seems like a bazillion years ago, or at least the laundry piles in my house imply that a significant amount of time has passed. (Yeah, I know that could also be chalked up to bad Hausfrau-ing. Or excellent Hausfrau-ing, depending on which way you look at it.) Our Easter was also extended this year: we had some lovely Irish houseguests which elongated the standard four days of celebration to a whole happy week. At any rate, get yourselves set for a festive blast from the (very recent) past.

I remember many years ago – when I still talked about kids with slight disdain and would snort audibly if anyone asked if I would ever have one – a friend of mine had recently had her first squawker and was talking about the things she most liked (I’m not sure if she discussed the things she didn’t rate. I certainly remember her being far more zen than I was as an early mother am). One of the things she was most excited about was creating family specific traditions, based on things she herself had cherished but with her new family’s own twists, knitting them together in shared experience and memories. I always thought this concept was appealing and sweet, but had little idea how much I would totally embrace it once my own (no longer disdained or snorted-about) offspring arrived.

Like the vast majority of human beings, I eat and enjoy food. I want my family to do the same. I particularly want my family, and all the people around us, to do this when there is some sort of reason to celebrate, to spend time together, to reflect on and savour where we’re at. Seasons, and seasons of life, pass so quickly. Recognising and acknowledging this passage while grounding the change in familiar senses – taste, smell, touch – is for me reassuring, secure. I hope that it will have the same effect, one day, for my two little snotters.

This year, we busted out again our favourite Easter bread: Aachener Poschwek.It’s a German bread, rich with butter, almonds, sultanas and whole sugar cubes that is served to break the fasting of Lent (which we totally observe in our household, yikes). It’s heaven warm with (even more) butter, and tastes even better still when made by your eleven year old house guest.

Jack, said eleven year old, had already proved his culinary prowess a few days previously when for Gründonnerstag – Green Thursday (or Maundy Thursday, or Holy Thursday, depending on what your background is) he commenced what I hope will become a delicious tradition for both our families. I’d seen a recipe for the German Grüner Kuchen (green cake), a savoury dish made with a range of greens – spring onions and parsley, in this case – meant to herald the arrival of spring and refresh the body and soul following the winter. I was super keen to try it, and no sooner had I mentioned it than Jack volunteered his services. Never one to miss the opportunity to watch another person labouring in my kitchen, I was delighted for him to give it a go. He made a yeasted bread base, over which he poured the greens-based custard, and topped it off with a bread crumb and bacon crust. It was heavenly, and I hope it graces our Easter table for years to come, especially as our little baker copied Jack’s every move.

No Easter – and especially one in Switzerland – could in good conscience (or good taste) be complete without….DIY chocolate, courtesy of the local chocolate factory. I’d intended the activity to be for primarily for Jack and Alex – the two older kids – but of course there was no way my little bunnies were going to let the action pass them by. While Addie decorated (how creepy, but also how logical, are those eye-ears?), cheeky Teddles crammed his little cheeks with as many candies as he could get past his mother’s (not so watchful, as I was equally busy cramming) eye.After all this feasting there was another Easter tradition to observe: Mount Titlis. We’d first gone up two years ago at Easter, and Tim ventured up for a terrifying day of Easter skiing last year. This year, Good Friday was the perfect day for the ascent, with clear blue skies after a week of rainy days. The braver of the crew (ie not me, as evidenced by the coffee below) embarked on the Titlis cliff walk, Europe’s highest suspension bridge which frankly is pure Easter idiocy (they were obviously all fine, and all duly impressed).

We also ventured inside the surprisingly dry glacial cave, carved out of 5000 year old ice, complete with creepy ice monsters (aka my offspring).

Following the departure of our guests, we took our chickens to see some chickens. A tradition in Luzern, every year the Natur-Museum hosts eggs that hatch into chicks over the Easter weekend. In years past, children were able to pick up the teeny tiny birds, but due to (completely reasonable) changes in animal rights requirements, they are now no longer able to be kid-handled. We still got to see all the action: eggs hatching in front of our eyes, baby birds clumsily moving with still-wet feathers, little birds flocking around their mama and playing tumble, just like our littles do most evenings.

The final Easter event was again aimed at counteracting the chocolates found on the slightly early Saturday egg hunt: a hike over the Zugerberg. Tim’s work is slap bang between Luzern and Zug; we tossed up for a while which town would better suit our family when we first moved here (sorry, Rotkreuz, you were never even in the running). Obviously we ended up in Luzern, but we’re shameless enough to still cash in on all Zug has to offer. The Zugerberg is a mountain rising above Lake Zug which we’d previously discounted given the proximity of Pilatus and Rigi. Joke was on us, as we soon found out. A kids’ trail which loops around the peak of the mountain opened late last year. It has a dozen or so stations which tell the story of forest animals whose houses were destroyed by a storm, the cave dwarves who helped them rebuild their homes, and a stolen diamond haul. Kids have to hunt for the diamonds throughout the walk, following clues and completing physical tasks as they go. Ads loved it, following the tale and trail with much excitement. She has been talking about the villainous thieving frog Amadeus ever since, with little attention given to the boring do-gooders of the story. I’m secretly proud, but suspect this speaks badly of us both.

Foolishly, we hadn’t expected there to be much snow left, but it also made for an idyllic walk. Tim’s favourite weather is the crispy snow in the gleaming sun, and this beautiful day did not disappoint.

And of course, to round out the Easter weekend and help with walk-related bribes (evil Amadeus only got us so far) we had to turn back to our old faithful: food. Happily the Easter Bunny left enough treats to see us well into the hike, and dodgy ol’ Amadeus didn’t get his hands on any of these treasures.Although the celebration is long over (and my laundry long ignored), we have many memories tucked away from this weekend to pull out and cherish. We’re still making our way through Easter eggs, although not through lack of asking on the kids’ part. There’s a chunk of the Aachener Poschwek in the freezer, biding its time until it’s rediscovered and summons forth recollections of little Jack baking, of kind Alex playing with our tiny Teddy, of our friends and their favourite rosé, and of the melting snow dripping away, changing seasons in front of our eyes.